Hope for the hopeless

I have a million hours of homework and studying to be doing. yet here I sit. i just needed to write.

I had a doctors appointment today. June Troxler decided that yes, indeed i should be on some mood stabilizers and also maybe something to help control my sleeping. fuck. I know, right? great. give crazy pills to the crazy little girl.

Okay, what i've really been thinking about is how that i really do kind of feel like guys should/do dominate girls. I love that Daniel knows how to take control of a situation. yeah, hes insecure like leonard by running every thought that runs through his head about me come out his mouth but he still has a plan and is capable of executing that plan. I kind of want him to pull me into his arms and be a bit rough.

I think that maybe, ultimately this is about my desire to not have to worry. I struggle with anxiety, right? PTSD is an anxiety disorder. If a man is dominating my life, i don't have to worry with life decisions. hes making them for me. that sounds glorious. but its not good or healthy. I need a guy who can balance that. one who can be an assertive man who knows how to be in control, and knows how to handle me without being domineering. I have to believe that this is possible. I just have to.

I want someone who sees me as an orphan-women like in Cane. I want to be seen like a wild child from "Sweet Afton" or "Wild Girl" I'm just a child. I want someone who takes care of me. in return i will make his life whimsical and beautiful and frivolous.

Does this kind of relationship exist?

its just got to.

I am such a little girl inside. I just want someone who will hold me.

all my love

ren

dissociate

~The Blue~

Wake me up,

I’m begging you

This cloud of

Silent sleep

Is killing me

Wake me up

Here and now

I’m so cold

Its so quiet

can’t fight it

Don’t let me

fall asleep

I’m just tired

Will this end?

I can’t wake

~Unsettled differences~

You make me impossibly mad,

I can’t even begin to explain

I resent you and feel total distain

I refuse to listen to what you say

I steadfastly ignore everything you do

My blood burns at the thought of you

You’re selfish down to the core

You’re arrogant to the highest degree-

-what, you think the same of me?

~Dissociation~

Hold on, please

Let me stay

My fingers slip

I’m sliding away

And like "Snap" I was awake

Fuck this. I went to bed at midnight. Purposely. I need sleeeeeep. This is getting ridiculous. I called Megan, twice, but she didn't answer. Its three thirty. The crazy part is that i was dreaming in poems. This is the one I remember:

~~

How do you smile like that?

Its quicker than thought.

How do you hope so much?

It hurts my worthless heart

I'm so frustrated. I know i'm tired. this is getting crazy. I need to go see June Troxler. But I wont see her til monday.

~Awake in the Night~

Remember, you are alone

Its the darkness closing in

The phone ringing, again, again

The sky outside is black as sin

Remember, each memory of pain

Crouch like lions, pouncing in

Ripping hope to bloody ribbon

Feasting on my deepest dream

Remember, that letter in the rain?

thoughts drip through, like a stain

A haunting that I can't explain

Just watch now, I will go insane

Okay, its four fifteen. I am going to try for some sleep now. Wish me luck. I may be back on here in a bit if this does't work.

Ren

its five thirty in the morning....

It is five thirty in the morning. Yet here I sit, unable to sleep. I'm exhausted, I know I am. Its like whatever demons haunt my mind, are plaguing me, prodding me into constant wakefulness. This is manic at its worst.

Sometime I wonder if manic isn't almost worse than depressive. Everything is endless with manic. Its over the top.

I feel terrible. I'm shaking and my teeth are chattering hardcore even though i'm not cold. Yet each time I start to drift off, my body yanks me away from that quiet release. No sleep for you, miss ren.

Is this even mania? I don't know whats going on with me.

Even my therapist doesn't completely know yet.

I'm crazy. Thats all there is to it.

If I wasn't crazy, sitting alone all night, night after night, certainly would make me crazy.

I was awake at one when the dorms closed.

I was awake at two when Daniel commented on my wall.

I was awake at three when Samara forgot her keys and needed to be let in.

I was awake at four, reading childrens books, trying to sleep

I was awake at five, watching youtube videos, finally admitting that I won't be getting sleep tonight.

~halucinations~

What is this madness?

My eyes won't stay open.

But they can't bear to be closed.

I look out on the misty street,

it looks how my mind feels,

blurred, uncertain, forgetful

still undecided about its true nature

Everything is so scary at night. Its the whole world comes alive, like the forest in Snow White. It seems like even the blankets, the window, the shadows are out to get me.

On wednesday night, i really freaked out. I dissociated at work. pretty bad, too. my senses were all paranoid and i had to have my back to a wall and i had to know where everyone was and i couldn't make eye contact very well and men were just terrifying.

Part of my distress this week may be due to the fact that my belief system got challenged by megan. she doesnt really feel that i really feel like women are equal to men. not that i don't want that to be true, but that i make comments and stuff that prove that my actual opinions think that women are less. and maybe i do a bit.

men dominate us because they're bigger physically.

But we, women, have sex appeal. which means that we win, every time.

at least, thats always how i've played it.

anyhow, is any of this making any sense? I don't make much sense to me right now. how can we think that i have narcolepsy when i also seem to have insomnia?

i just want to know what is happening inside my brain that makes me this way.

Is like "they told me all the wiring was somehow all misfiring and screwing up the signals in my brain, and then they told me chemistry was losing up the circitry and mixing up and making me insane."

What would your thoughts be as you sit by your window, wrapped in a blanket, at a quarter to six? The world is starting to wake up. In another half hour the earliest risers will be getting their showers, tip-toeing so as not to wake their roommates. The track team is probably lacing up their shoes right about now, just starting on a morning run. All over Elizabethton, people's automatic coffee pots are switching on, starting to brew a steaming karaffe of liquid energy. The mail men are probably getting up, starting their slow, unending routes around the quiet neighborhoods.

Its too foggy this morning for me to be able to watch the sun rise. But thats alright, I'll see it tomorrow. Thats the beauty of the sunrise. We are always there for each other. Even if one of us misses a day, its fine, we know that we have tomorrow to share in the first golden streaks of morning.

And, ah, there, its ten til six, and Beth has come to use our shower. (Her's isn't usable at the moment) She is surprised and asks why I am up. I tell her that i haven't been to bed yet. she goes. "Ren, ohhh, ren." I know. Believe me.

Then, naturally, she asks the obvious question.

"Why?"

I tell her night terrors.

she asks why again.

I say "PTSD." She asks what that is.

I say "Post-traumatic Stress Disorder"

she gasps and says "from what?"

My words falter awkwardly, now is not the time for an intimate explanation. "Abuse." I say stoically. She sighs and says "oh, ren" again. I feel like smiling. i'm kind of glad that someone is here to see what i do most nights. I feel like I just connected with Beth in a new way. She just got on my good side.

I suppose that is because she just saw who i really feel like I am. I think of myself as a slightly crazy writer girl who stays up all night because of phantasmic nightmares and hallucinations. I feel like the girl who just might very well stay up all night writing, because thats just what I want to do.

Yet, there are some things that seeing what i go through each night can't explain.

I can't explain the way my eyes jump around from tiredness, like fizzy magic eight balls.

I can't express the numb feeling of a cold dead fish that creeps over me about three o'clock.

Theres no way to explain how even when i'm not having flashbacks, i still feel scared of everything.

I can't explain how my phone is a security measure for me and when i feel that I've misplaced it or lost it, the panic that rises.

I will never be able to explain what this anxiety feels like. Its a hypertension sort of feeling. Like every muscle in my body is straining to run if need be. Its like being encased in a giant plastic air bubble. There's pressure from every side, shooting me up, and weighing me down.

Have you ever been this tired in your life? This is the kind of chronic numbing tired that is generally associated with colic newborn babies or finals week. Yet, unlike those types of tired, when when you finally get a moment, you can collapse and sleep, you have plenty of time, but are unable to utilize it. That in itself is enough to drive anyone batty.

How is it that i feel bursting with words and yet i am not certain that i have anything to say?

That makes even less sense the the nonsense i've been writing for like 40 minutes. I suppose that later i can chock this all up to being exhausted. but maybe theres truth hidden in my rambles.

"But the violets have all withered,"

I'm not sure why that came to mind all the sudden, unless I am (apparently) no longer loyal to sleep. That treachery seems like a foolish one to me. Yet it would seem that its my choice.

But then, its not my choice. Can i explain that to someone who doesn't know? I don't chose sit up at night. I don't chose to react badly to sudden noises or movements or unexpected touches. And its not like this makes me any weaker.. okay, well, maybe I am weaker because, in a practical sense, i'm just simply less stable. But that doesn't mean that I'm weaker in my courage or my hope or my creativity. Just what are we talking about here?

Can PTSD make sense to someone who doesn't know? I know that Rebecca Seaman thought that the idea of seeing yourself outside of yourself sounded crazy and bizarre. But thats just one person. I wonder if Beth is thinking about me now, while she's in my bathroom. Is she wondering over what I said? Is she trying to guess what "abuse" I suffered through that now keeps me up all night? Does she even really care? Do i intrigue her? Or maybe the of a PTSD sounds dangerous and unfriendly and she doesn't like me. Maybe she feels compassion for me.

~The Survivors~

I wonder if this is how soldiers feel.

I think it must be.

Road-weary and burdened.

We are the exhausted,

Even in the face of victory, we are defeated

because there will never be peace for us

No matter how much tranquility

there will be screams in our ears

Tormented wraiths crowd our minds

Hands that reach out to steady us,

seem to be grasping to kill

Even in the face of victory, we are defeated

Because there will never be peace for us

The nightmares claw at the veil

between the waking and sleeping hours

making sleep real as day,

and reality as fuzzy as a dream

No understanding of which is which anymore

Even in the face of victory, we are defeated

Because there will never be peace for us.

Its now six thirty. Strange how time passes, isn't it? Time. In Alice in wonderland, time is a HE who gets grumpy. Time is elusive and changable. Yet truth be told, I suppose that time is that way here too, if you really stop to think about it. At moments time, flies by and then it crawls.

I am going to give sleeping one more try now.

Wish me luck,

Ren

letters to ideas

Dear Multi-tasking

I’m texting twitter, while scanning articles about SOPA and checking facebook, while eating creamed corn. I’m also listening to music. Oh and by the way, Megan is sitting on the next bed over and I’m chatting about the guy’s we like.

Consider yourself pwned.

Ren

Dear Ren,

You are making typos in your twitter comment. You are currently forgetting 85% of what you read about SOPA. Your eyes are actually glazing over and you are taking in none of what you read on facebook. As for the music, it is being completely ignored by your ears in order to strain to listen to what Megan is saying. Also, you just said the sentence “I mean, like, yeah, he’s cute, you know?” Profound, dear, profound.

I will consider nothing,

Multi-Tasking

My Baby

Dear Lydia Claire,

Do you know how many prayers I’ve whispered for you? Did you know that the first day I realized you were mine, I couldn’t stop smiling? I ran to the mirror, and pulled up my shirt and stared in awe, my hands cupping my stomach. I couldn’t move. The immensity of you coming into this world stunned me. I stood there, staring at our reflection. My mind raced with ideas of what you would look like, dear. In that instant, you became mine. You, so precious, so tiny, I couldn’t imagine anything else ever being as important as you.

My baby, each night that you were mine, I fell asleep, my arms cradled around you. Every day you became more and more real. Some days I cried, you were going to be born into a world of struggling and abuse and lies.

I want to explain to you, dear one, who your father is. He is a young man named Scott Summers. I have a hard time finding words. He is alive, vibrant. When he is excited, everyone else is excited too. He is a marine biologist. I believe you have his eyes, big, with dark lashes and pure woodsy green. He is Italian, yet more irish blood ran in his veins than anyone I’d ever met. He has a laugh like a wild animal, crazy and huge and somehow spooky, like a wood sprite. He is Oberon.

We used to run through the woods at night, completely naked, our hands clasped, the full moon shining our way. I never felt tired on nights like those. We’d run and chase and collapse to the ground, our bodies wrapped in one another. He’d love me like a demon, gentle, then violent, teasing and touching.

I hope that you are as free as we were on nights like those. We were young. We thought we were infinite. How could a love like that end? He thrilled me in every way possible. His voice enraptured me from the first “hello”.

It was at the New London Theatre. I walked in late and took the first empty seat I saw, which was next to a dark-haired boy with a creamy olive complexion. I had fallen for him in an instant. We were but children ourselves when we met. Fourteen. Much too young to understand what love is. “This is life before you know who you’re gonna be” as Taylor Swift says in her song, Fifteen.

It was a fairytale romance for two years. I have no better words. Fairytales. We kissed in the rain. He carved me a gold heart necklace. He called me “Love” in that rough, playful voice. Each day I saw him, joy would pound in my veins. I would run and leap and wrap myself around him, unable to mesh my heart close enough to his. We danced around the kitchen, making waffles, on sunny mornings, singing Irish drinking songs.

The unending joy built and built to a zenith, on valentines day, 2010. He got down on one knee, singing “Marry me, Juliet, you’ll never have to be alone, I love you and that’s all I really know, I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress, it’s a love story, baby, just say ‘yes’,” That night, I said yes, and I thought my world was complete. I had no idea how much more complete it would be with you, my angel. I thought that nothing could tear me apart.

Yet then, in just six weeks, you were ripped from me. I cried in vain, the blood was red, your blood, nothing could bring you back. Dead. I swear I died June that day too. I know that you’re in heaven. How could you not be? You were the most beautiful girl will ever know. I would have moved mountains to save you.

Yet in the end, all I could do was clean up your blood and treasure your memory, Lydia Claire Summers. You embody all that is glorious about endless summer love. Like Beloved from Toni Morrison’s novel, Beloved, you are memory of all the good that passed between Scott and I. You are the only one that will ever remember it.

“Everyone would remember Peter for nineteen minutes of his life, but what about the other nine million? Lacy would be the keeper of those, because it was the only way for that part of Peter to stay alive. For every recollection of him that involved a bullet or a scream, she would have a hundred others …She would string them together - the moments when her child had been just like other people's. She would wear them, precious pearls, every day of her life; because if she lost them, then the boy she had loved and raised and known would really be gone.” From Nineteen Minute’s by Jodi Picoult.

My Child, you are the bearer of the memories of Scott, each memory that is not tainted by bruises and fists and lies. You are the beautiful memory. I allow the rest to swirl into darkness. Except for you, my baby, you will live on in my mind, a shining beacon, your bright green eyes lit with hope, a single candle lit in memory of what used to be.

I will be forever yours,

Your mom,

Ren

Before You Wish

~Before You Wish~

To the girls who are lonely

The ones who feel outcast

To those who are angry

Here is a response at last

When I walk into the room

The whole place turns my way

Men forever presume

they are predator, I’m prey

My sweet fairytale story,

is a tearful mess

beneath popularity

Lurks emotional distress

There will always be guys

Who use me, my beauty

Promising selfish lies

To eat my heart, to break me

No matter what I do

No one will respect me

I’m here, behind this face

I’m much more than this body

No one ever sees my heart

And how I really feel

Yet you get to be judged

For who lives on the inside

So if you’re quiet and plain

And feel alone and blue

Thank the bright stars again

That no one’s tried to use you

I’m not ignoring what you miss

Or mocking the girl next door

But before you make a wish,

Know what tragedys in store

Go screw yourself

Well, by way of explanation, my therapist bade me write letters to people who are effecting me. Not real letters, nothing you’d ever send, but letters explaining the hows and whys and what went wrongs.

So here’s one to Brandon.

Brandon,

I would call you “dear” Brandon, but you are not dear. You are not a nice person. I am scared of you. I know that I told you that I cared. I know that I kissed you that night, wrapped in a blanket before the fire, eating Nutella and apples- just the two of us. I know I wrote you letters while you were in the Ukraine with the Marines.

I never read the story you wrote me, when I started it, I felt nauseated. Not only was the writing not good but your possessive sweetness was vomit-inducing.

Remember when I broke up with you? Why didn’t you leave then?

Remember when I kicked you out of my house? Why didn’t that make you mad enough to never come back?

Remember when I confronted you, that cold night in September and told you to fuck off. I told you I wasn’t attracted to you. I told you it was over. I told you to never come back. I told you I was scared of you. Why didn’t you listen to me?

Remember when I called campus security and had your butt thrown off campus? I laid awake that night, crying to myself and seeing shadows that weren’t there. Why did you come back?

Remember when the dean and I called the cops on you? Why do you still profess your love?

I’m sick of you. I hate the memories I have of us together. That picnic breakfast on the kitchen floor at six in the morning is spoiled now, the syrup too sticky, the sunlight faded. I’ll never be able to erase the night we danced by the river, the wind in my hair, your hands on my waist. Looking back I can tell that even then you weren’t man enough for me. I need someone who can take initiative, someone who is stronger than me, someone who can have ideas of his own. If you had been bold and confronted me after I broke up with you- instead of skulking around until I called the police- I might have taken you back. But no, Robert Brandon Jones, you are a coward.

Do you know why I kissed you that one last time, the day before I broke up with you? To see if I could stomach kissing that face every day for the rest of my life. I couldn’t.

You know what else? I hate you more than I hate any other lame excuse of a douche bag who has ever fallen for me. I think that the weasel-y way you would promise to back off, and then pressure me more than ever, while whispering you loved me. That is despicable. I hate the sniveling way you posted creepy, fanatical thoughts about me online. You know how you smiled when I told you I believe in happy endings? Well this doesn’t end happy, not for you anyway. So you can just go to hell.

Good bye.

Greetings

Well, I feel pretty silly. Here i am, sitting on my bed in my pajamas, creating a new blog for the sole purpose of helping me feel less alone.

The larger reason for this new blog is because I need someone to cry to, someone to let my heart fall into, someone who can listen- and, you guessed, make me feel less alone.

The biggest reason for this blog is because I am currently seeing a therapist and psychiatrist and they say I have PTSD with dissociative tendencies. I struggle with an eating disorder. I have hallucinations. They are also currently trying to decipher if I have bipolar one disorder. We don't know yet.

But I know that whatever is wrong with me has got me down right now into what I call "the cold/tired feeling" or the "flat/grey feeling". I've been this way for two weeks now, of late. I've had night mares and night terrors almost every time I've fallen asleep since finals (which were the first week of december)

I don't sleep. I jump at loud noise and sudden movements. For weeks at a time I will feel like my normal, happy self- but the truth is that my mind feels shattered. Because when it comes down to stress or fear or pain, i lose it. I cry when I'm not sad. I laugh when my mind decides to laugh. Some days I can't hardly bring myself to move. Other days I cannot sit still. I am scared of shadows, ghosts, water and abandonment. Yet the truth is, I am already alone.

Yet, this is not the girl most people see. They see a sophomore in college, getting her degree in humanities. They see an adorable girl, five foot three, with big hopeful blue eyes and wild, curly brown hair. They see a girl filled with dreams of writing novels, becoming a hair stylist, getting married, having kids. To them I am a happy young adult, working at Aerie. They laugh because I'm a little too obsessed with shopping.

I'm sweet because I am sensitive.

I'm sexy because men tell me so.

I'm a dreamer because I scribble nonsense, trying to write poetry.

I'm motherly because I cook and sew and I share my talents.

I'm determined because I write novels...

...I'm crazy because I feel like I'm losing my reality.

I am Ren.

This will be my blog. Whether I write letters I will never send, prayers that I pray with a desperate heart, they are mine. I will type out memories before I lose them, some will be funny. Some will make you cry. This is no fluffy sunshine blog. This is me, Ren Reed, finally being me.